Yellow Moon

The nightjar knows my window,
Brought to my attention
On a sandless sirocco.
A diaphanous cotton curtain,
Duck egg coloured, coveted
Under an oval rococo sky.

Yellow moon, rarified, rarer
Than blue, gravity carries
Waves of vibrant life on
This town’s fringe, car horns,
A far dog’s bark, moored yachts
With light bulb strings and

Distant bells. I lay dreaming
On my chaise longue beneath
Windows with symbols like
Love unattired, perspiring
Slightly on my lip, I sipped
Some milk in my sleep

And counted the many statues
With their harps and arrows
Until it slipped, transpiring
That you could not arrive in your
Current form, and nor could I
Leave, though love, how I tried,

How I tried and deceived
The seven symptoms of my distress,
Kept apart from the night-princess
With life’s strings I strived to
Contest, I awoke in a sweat,
Only to find I survived instead.

My Doppelgänger Returned

Locked out,
Extraneous to a house
As I watched myself
Inside, combing my hair
And walking about as if
I owned the place, which I did;
Re-arranging a shelf I had
No business organising
Books alphabetically by author
And ornaments I bought
On travels around the continent.
I pounded at the pane and
I shouted to no great avail,
My voice as light as partial hail
As it melts on a lawn, early April.
I couldn’t hear my outside-self think.

Held by an undressed woman,
You danced across the kitchen
Captivated by her supple spell,
Her hair in a band and laden
With all the meaning of murex-purple Embroidered silk.
A sash fell down, and you
Both collapsed against the sink
Where I used to wait
For the immersion tank to work,
Its creaking pipes would groan
And from my vantage admire
On salmon terracotta tiles
Willow baskets, jasmines in pink.
Your feet looked just like mine.
I became a voyeur to myself
And could not help but disappear
Into my own open mouth
Where all my words ran out.
I changed the locks to myself.

Many years later I lived
In a quintessentially different city,
Stood in a different pair of sneakers
At a different kitchen window,
Yet I never could forget
My tergiversated self,
Collapsing on the verge of that house,
Aware of all we could deserve
And all we could not help.

Black Dress

This bleak and empty screen,
Like repetitive angst, or writer’s block,
Trying to eke and will words out

As contrived as a tattooed snake in my jaw,
Polarising a use of my
Fruitless time, amoral Time,

As trying to help pull you through
From one place in our denuded lineage
And the space between rhymes

To another untested angle,
But there’s your better lover
Returning home from work

While I wait through centuries here,
Willing improvements in words
To emerge like moonlight

On a dim and distant
Drain-scarred stagnant moor.
You dropped your black dress,

Yes, I watched the seismograph
In my mind finding new charts,
In a pool on a kitchen floor.